


proximity

by gracieminabox



Series: horizons universe [8]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-13 03:00:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11750664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracieminabox/pseuds/gracieminabox
Summary: or: five times Chris and Phil shared a bed at least 97% platonically (and one time that percentage was zero).(Takes place in the same universe as "the way our horizons meet" and its companions.)





	proximity

_1: 2234_

Chris’ mind woke before his body did, though all that really registered was a vague sense of _everything hurts._ His head hurt, his stomach hurt, his throat hurt…even his hair hurt. He also felt bleary, kind of like he was drunk without the fun part; everything was fuzzy, including his memory. Slowly, glacially, snippets began to come back to him.

Stumbling out of bed, this morning – _yesterday morning?_ – and taking way too long to figure out how to put on his reds. Fumbling his way through making coffee. Phil walking into the kitchen and looking at him with fond exasperation. _“Are you out of your fucking mind?”_ Vague protests that he had a meeting with his advisor and an interview with the chef from the Kelvin scheduled for today. Phil unceremoniously walking him back to his futon and plopping him back down on the bed. Then…blissful, thorough unconsciousness.

Chris tried to open his eyes, stymied a little by the gumminess of his lids _(gross),_ and looked around. It was night outside; he’d slept an entire day away. There was a glass of water on the end table nearest him, along with a cup of tea long gone tepid, and a half dozen empty hyposprays. A violently orange bucket was on the floor next to the bed; judging by the distinct odor of disinfectant hovering in the air, it had recently been used, and probably by him, though he couldn’t remember it.

Slowly, pained, he rolled onto his back, only to feel the distinct presence of another body in his bed.

Phil lay with his head cocked back at what had to be an uncomfortable angle, still in uniform, a PADD gone dark resting on his belly. His mouth was slightly open; Chris heard the faintest sound of snoring.

As Chris watched, Phil winced, blinked awake, looked over to Chris, and smiled. “Well, if it isn’t Sleeping Beauty.”

_2: 2236_

In retrospect, Chris was not entirely certain how his arms had wound their way around Phil. They’d been lying there, on Phil’s bed, as Phil spoke with increasing sadness about the patient he’d lost that afternoon…and it just sort of happened. It seemed natural to extend his arms around Phil, and Phil apparently found it equally natural to curl into them.

Phil told Chris the full story in a whisper. She was a first-year cadet, he said. Only nineteen. Took medications to end a pregnancy two months ago, but never went back for her checkup to make sure they worked. They didn’t. When her abdominal pain got so severe that she had to leave her Basic Warp Design class for the emergency room, it was Phil who found the placental abruption. He and another attending worked for an hour, he said, trying to stabilize her, giving her blood replacements, but to no avail. She bled out. Her fetus was far too small, Phil said; they tried, but they knew going in that it would be futile.

Chris had learned over the years that they’d known one another that Phil was a profoundly compassionate person. He was such a tender-hearted soul and responded readily to the pain of others. It was both a help and a hindrance to him as a doctor. His clinical empathy gave him the best bedside manner in all of Medical, by a wide margin; it’s what made patients come in requesting to see him, even though he was “only a fellow.” But in situations like this, where a totally senseless death threw his optimism, his faith in his own technical skills, and his remarkably firm dedication to justice into doubt, his own compassion smacked him down hard.

Apparently, Chris and Phil had fallen asleep at some point after Phil had told the story. When Chris woke, Phil was still dozing lightly, curled up in a ball in Chris’ arms.

He had freckles on the bridge of his nose. Why had Chris never noticed that before?

Chris lost track of time looking at them. When he looked up, Phil’s eyes were blinking open, navy fading to denim fading to sky. He cocked his head slightly to the side.

“What are you doing?” Phil said, voice gravelly.

“Counting the freckles on your nose,” Chris answered honestly.

Phil took in a deep, quiet breath, then blew it out slowly.

_3: 2241_

Shortly after Chris' promotion to commander, the Vaughan was dispatched to deliver food and medical aid to the D’Zarr’Vai, the native people of an ally planet. While not a full Federation member, the D’Zarr’Vai were a friendly, warp capable species that had just survived a devastating attack on their entire eastern hemisphere by a hostile neighboring planet. Away teams were divvied up, with Chris, Phil, Number One, and Lieutenant K’ratra from supplies heading to the northernmost continent.

At the end of the evening, their D’Zarr’Vai hosts showed them to rooms for the night. A fairly sex-segregated people, they gave K’ratra and Number One their own rooms and showed Phil and Chris to a single for the night. They both shrugged; it’s not like they hadn’t roomed together for years. It’d be fine.

Except there was only one very tiny bed. And it appeared to be made out of some kind of waterbed-like material, but with pillows that were hard as rocks.

“Actually,” Phil opined, picking one up and examining it closely, “I think they might _be_ rocks.” 

Chris rubbed a pain point in his temple slowly.

Carefully – very carefully, Phil crawled onto the bed, wincing as his head hit the pseudo-pillow and tossing it to the ground, where it made a resounding _thunk_ sound. Chris didn’t even bother; he just dropped the thing to the floor before climbing in too, unable to restrain a slight giggle as Phil bounced along a gentle wave from the fluid thrill. 

The bed was about two inches too short for Phil; Chris, a fair few centimeters taller, had no choice but to let his feet dangle off the bed.

“Well,” he said dryly, “isn’t this cozy?”

Phil snorted. Chris shivered. 

“You cold?” Phil asked.

“No blanket,” Chris answered.

Phil looked around for a possible solution, then shook his head and reached out to tug Chris closer, sharing his body heat. “Eh, fuck it,” he muttered. “I’ve got all your cooties by now anyway.”

_4: 2245_

They didn’t realize until after they’d already been up on a hilltop scattering Chris’ mother to the wind that they hadn’t made lodging arrangements in Mojave.

Phil looked over at Chris in the passenger’s seat; he looked dazed and exhausted and like he was barely holding together with threads and scotch tape. He needed a meal and a shower and sleep, desperately. Phil knew better than to suggest calling up Chris’ dad or, god forbid, his grandmother; and virtually everyone else he knew from Mojave had bolted after high school. Their lone remaining option was a motel. 

There was one room left at the 7-Nite Lodge, for a hundred credits, and there was a diner next door. Phil paid for the room, then basically carried Chris up the stairs, shouldering both their bags.

Neither of them had the energy to blink at the single queen-size bed. 

“All right,” Phil said lowly, dropping the bags and letting Chris sit on the bed. “Why don’t you grab a shower and I’ll run over to the diner and get you a burger.”

Chris looked up, as if just realizing Phil was there, and nodded.

Phil returned fifteen minutes later, a burger and fries in one hand and a truly sad looking steamed vegetable plate in the other (minimum ninety percent broccoli, so _this_ would be a fun night), and found Chris sitting right where he left him, at the foot of the bed. His hair was damp, so he’d clearly showered, but still looked just as dazed.

Phil sat next to him and handed him his box of food. “Eat,” he instructed gently.

The dam didn’t break until one in the morning, as they both lay in the dark. Phil felt a quiver in the bedsprings and rolled over; from the streetlight outside, he could see tears glittering on Chris’ cheeks. Phil didn’t say anything; he just rolled over, pulled Chris into his arms, and held him close, rubbing the back of his neck, as Chris sobbed himself to sleep.

_5: 2254_

Chris was asleep in his apartment and dreaming of being surrounded by a warm, sensuous, comforting, cinnamon smell when he woke to the sensation of the bed dipping next to him. He rolled over and his heart gave a little quiver.

“Phil?” he grumbled quizzically.

“Mmmrph,” Phil answered eloquently, face three-quarters buried in the pillow next to Chris.

Chris wiped his eyes, looking around his bedroom, trying to figure out what was going on. “What…what are you doing in my bed?” Chris blinked. “In my apartment? In _anywhere that isn’t your house?”_  

“Forgot,” Phil mumbled, and…yeah, that was a _strong_ whiff of booze. It was pretty hard to get Phil good and plastered, but when he got there, he really went all the way. He’d have a bitch of a hangover tomorrow. Chris was already dreading it.

“What’d you forget?”

“Code.” Phil cuddled the pillow he was resting on, nestling his head deeper into the down. “Your ‘partment closer ‘nyway.”

Chris blinked again. “By a block.” Phil didn’t answer. Chris continued. “Why are you in my bed? Why not on the couch?”

“Couch isn’t comfy,” Phil mumbled. “Bed’s comfy. ‘sides, has you in it.” His voice trailed off, becoming almost unintelligible; Chris just barely caught the words “smells like you.”

Chris felt something newborn and unfamiliar squeezing his heart at the words. He leaned down, stroked a wayward lock of silvery-gray hair out of Phil’s eyes, and for some reason – he _must’ve_ been more tired than he thought, to ignore his inhibitions like this – let his hand stroke its way down Phil’s cheek. It was warm and slightly stubbly, and _oh god_ , Chris thought, _people are not supposed to feel this way about their best friends._

He lay back down, facing Phil, watching his eyes dance behind his lids over long, long eyelashes, and let himself drift back off to sleep, this time surrounded for _real_ by the warm, sensuous, comforting smell of cinnamon.

_1: 2257_

Phil had to pee. There was a furry, skinny shin pressing insistently into his own and a heavy arm draped over his middle. His right arm was trapped and losing feeling under a neck, and he could feel the knobby prominences of a spine under the fingers of his left hand. He was hopelessly tangled up in the sheets, and the blanket had long since been lost to the night and was piled somewhere on the floor surrounding the bed. His eyes felt bleary and his mouth felt fuzzy and dry. 

He inhaled – _warmbrightsunshinecitrussweet_ – and it all came back to him.

Without opening his eyes, he leaned out and let his lips make contact with skin once, twice, a third time. A smile stretched under his lips, and he felt, more than he heard, a contented inhale.

Slowly, Phil let his eyes slip open. They met slate blue and a warm grin that had weakened his knees since forever.

“Morning,” Chris whispered.


End file.
